An end
by ClosetCase
Summary: "Oh Dylan, I still wished I had told you" / Basic one-shot, may lead to inspiring an actual chaptered-story one-day.


Startled awake by the feel of cold calloused hands squeezing around my throat, I had little to no time to react as a knee was swiftly plunged into my abdomen to contain my thrashing. I had been in this situation before, but not like this. Never had I been on this side of the barrel, digging my nails into soft flesh and scratching at a face that swam in and out of my sleepy and suffocating vision. When I had first been awakened I had gasped and lost my breath—this was my first mistake.

My lungs began to burn and my lips parted, drying out my mouth so quickly I thought I was in the desert under the hot sun. Splotches of dark began to take over my vision, and I felt the salty tears begin to fall down my cheeks. I could see in my mind's eye the hourglass draining through a crack in the glass, each grain of sand slowly tumbling out. To me this represented the end, something I knew I could never come to terms with, especially in such a short time. He was going to kill me. There was no doubt about this, and though it felt like hours with each flexing muscle in his fingers holding me tight, I knew it was only minutes.

And so I thought of my regrets, of how much I regretted never apologizing to my father for what I had put him through; for the agony and suffering I had taken out on others, just to fulfill a stupid _job _and desperate need. I thought of his smiling face and the twinkle in his eye whenever he caught me coming back from an _accident_. The only man who I believed to of ever entertained the idea of truly loving me.

I wondered if anyone would miss me, or rejoice at my departure. Would they heave a sigh of relief, quietly acknowledging that there was one less 'bad person' in the world. Or would they feel the weight of what my disappearance would bring? For surely the men who would come after me, would do much worse than simply setting fires and breaking knuckles. This town would suffer either way. For the fields never ended, and the towns habits could never be quelled.

Then I thought of why my attacker was truly choking me in such a barbaric way. Loosening his hold only when he thought I would leave him too soon, prolonging in such a morbid way, my death. But it would come, and there would be no heroic knight barging in to save me.

My limbs began to tingle and sting, reminding me of every time my legs had fallen asleep and rather than trying to walk it off, I had tricked him into carrying me about. I wish I'd told him I loved him, even if he never said it back. I felt like weeping suddenly, but could only continue to flounder and wheeze with no air returning to my lungs.

Oh and love him I did. For those eyes—and suddenly it makes sense as I take my last looks at the mysterious face before me. They were so different, but so alike. They had the same jawline and nose, something only true brothers would share. But now I could understand the difference. This one was like me, and he always would be.

He sought out the kind of thrill that only this act could bring, nearly exploding inside out from the near pleasure it brought. And that was when I accepted it. It was only right now that my passing could give this to someone else, more importantly, to _his_ _younger brother_.

"_Nor—ma—an" _

I manage to give him my final words, desperate to let him know that it was okay to feel this way. That I did not want him to struggle with a guilty conscience over what he was taking from me.

"_Th—" _I felt him ease up a moment, "—_ank you_"

And that was it. I could breathe no longer, and the pain that was tightening my muscles and bursting in my chest vanished. Everything just sank down into the covers of the bed below me. I knew my eyes did not close, for I did not wish it. It was my gift to the young boy, to satisfy the need that burned within him. And though I knew I would never see his older brother again; there was something left behind that knew it was alright. Somehow he would come to terms with this, or maybe he would simply believe I had run away—something we had talked about so many times before—but whatever he did, he would continue on.

_Oh Dylan, I still wished I had told you…_


End file.
